


068 - You're Looking Real Cute in Your Glasses, Girl

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, body pos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 03:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “could you pls write something where you and van are dating and you wear glasses but you’ve never liked them so you keep using contact lenses, but when you and van are at home in the evening you have to wear them and even if you hate them he thinks you’re super cute?”





	068 - You're Looking Real Cute in Your Glasses, Girl

You were home alone on a Sunday night when there was a knock at the door. You opened to Van holding a brown paper bag. He didn't appear to know it was almost midnight. He seemed to need significantly less sleep than the average person, and if lyrics weren't flowing from his fingers, then he'd be at your door. It's just how things were. You let him in, and he went straight to the kitchen. He put the bag down on the bench then opened his arms for a hug. You held him while he explained that he wanted cookies. He'd brought everything you'd need to bake. You agreed, and he took his usual seat the breakfast bar.

When you pulled your measuring jug out and looked at the side, you were reminded that you'd taken out your contact lenses. You stared at the jug for too long, trying to decide what to do. You wore one-time wear lenses, and you were completely out. You had an appointment the very next morning to get more, in fact. You could feel the hot feeling of anxiety roll over your shoulder blades. You weren't really sure where your glasses were. Maybe in the bathroom cupboard? The bedside table draw? Abandoned literally anywhere out of hate for them?

You were severely farsighted. The world was clear, but anything close became a hazy blur of colour. Simple tasks were incredibly difficult because of that. A perfect example of a task that would be impeded by the condition is baking cookies. You had grown up with glasses on and were bullied all through primary school because of it. Kids can be cruel, and glasses never used to be cool. When you hit high school you begged for contacts. Your optometrist wasn't supportive of the idea. Long term wear contacts irritated your eyes. She said if you wanted them, you would have to fresh ones daily. It was a lifelong commitment you were willing to make to be more like everyone else.

As you grew up and grew into yourself, you never grew into loving your glasses. Hardly any of your friends even knew you needed them. A number of times you had slept in the contacts when you crashed at friends' house when you really shouldn't have… The amount of pain you'd put your eyes through… So, looking at the measuring jug with Van chattering about something behind you, you were faced with an impossible decision. You'd either have to find a reason to not bake and maybe coerce him into another activity (sex seemed like a solid alternative), or find your glasses and deal with the impact that may have on your self-esteem.

When he noticed you'd stopped the baking process, Van stopped talking.

"Babe?"

His voice snapped you out of the daze. You turned around.

"I can't bake the cookies," you said. You could hear how slow your voice sounded.

"Okay. Why? You alright?" He moved to you and pulled you into a hug. You closed your eyes and rested your head on his shoulder.

"I can't see without my contacts or glasses," you whispered. A big confession for you; inconsequential for Van.

"I didn't know you 'ad glasses?"

"Nobody does. I hate them. A lot. I normally wear contacts but I don't have any."

Van broke the hug and looked at you. Even if you focused hard on his face you wouldn't have been able to read his expression. You kept your head down. "So you don't want to wear your glasses? Do you think you look funny with them? Where are they?" You didn’t cry, but you could feel yourself fall into the sulky, non-talkative mood. You just shrugged in reply. You could tell he was waiting for more than that. Van never bought into anyone's drama, and if you sulked he'd wait for you to stop before helping. You sighed.

"Maybe bathroom." You followed him and stood in the doorway as he rummaged through the cupboard and draws. He found them in the bottom draw under an old hair straightener you never used. He handed you the case and you held it tightly. "You're gonna think I look weird,"

"No. I think you're beautiful, and I love you to bits no matter what. You know that." You did. The case opened with an unused crack. You slid the glasses on and they were clean. You were standing far enough away from the mirror that you couldn't see your reflection, and for that you were grateful. Van smiled and shrugged. "Dead cute. Like always."

"Don't look smarter or anything?" you asked, preempting the comment always uttered when glasses appeared.

"I think you always look smart." God, he was good. You nodded, somehow feeling both defeated and lifted at once. Van stepped close and kissed the tip of your nose. "Alright. Come on. Now that you won't mix up the sugar and salt, you can make me cookies."

…

You ate the still-warm cookies with milk in front of the television. Van settled down and you could see him spacing out, thinking about something other than the old episode of Come Dine With Me.

"Van?" you asked. He looked at you, stood and went over to the side table near the front door. He returned with a notepad and pen. He started to scribble down words. Lyrics. Songs. Albums. He'd do this sometimes. You watched him for a couple of minutes, falling more and more in love, then returned to the episode. A blonde girl who idolised Marilyn Monroe won the money.

"Can you read this?" he asked, handing the notepad over to you. You frowned.

"I don't read your lyrics normally,"

"Yeah. That's because the first time I asked you to you said you wanted to wait until it was on an album. But that was because I asked you to read them at 2am when we were in bed and you probably had already taken out your lenses, yeah? That's why you said no?"

At first you didn't remember. Then, a vague memory of an open window and summer breeze and Van getting back from tour with a hundred ideas. He was hurt that you wouldn't read them, but since you couldn't see his face, you never knew that. You never thought it was a big deal. The idea that your refusal to wear glasses while lying around the house could impact your relationship had never crossed your mind.

"I forgot about that. I must have just… internalised that idea. Van. I'm sorry, I-"

"No, babe," he stopped you from needing to explain yourself. "I wasn't having a go. I just meant, you can read them now, yeah?" You nodded and took the paper. The song was a love song, and like all his others it was straight to the point. And, like most of the others, it was about you. "I just… You're just," his hands were flinging about trying to add clarity, "radiant." You shook your head at him. One of your favourite things about Van was that he'd speak so regularly, so middle class, but his sentences were punctuated by these words that felt like right-clicked synonyms. They just came out of him and you wondered where he had heard them.

…

When you got into bed together you took the glasses off and went to put them on your bedside table. "Wait, gimme them," Van said. You handed them over and he put them on.

"Yeah, I can't really see what you look like though. Take a photo." He leant over you to get your phone. He giggled as he followed the instructions. You put the glasses back on to see the photos. "Wow. How is it fair that you look good in glasses?"

"I look good in everything," he replied quickly with a feigned smugness. You laughed.

As you cuddled into Van and the room was a glowing expanse of dark shapes and quiet sounds, you felt like maybe you could wear the glasses more. Only at home, still. One boy couldn't undo a lifetime of self-doubt, nor a childhood of trauma, but he could make a safe space for you to exist in as your whole self. That alone was pretty fucking special.


End file.
